


Bloody Bedfellows

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Series: The Noir [1]
Category: Welcome to the Game (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Choking, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Femdom, Light Masochism, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Multiple Orgasms, Murder Kink, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Romance, Sadism, Squirting, Stalking, lavender oil, like gothic levels of romance here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 14:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15245604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: She's everything he's ever wanted and more and Mr. Noir will find a way to prove he's necessary to her spree... her survival, and one way or another, she'll love him as madly as he loves her.Anon #1 asked: What about the noir tho??? He has a mask like our boy Brahms, he's bulky and has a fucking sidecut which is yummy COULD YOU PLEASE WRITE SOME PORN FOR HIM?Anon #2 asked: Omg I just read your Breather fic and I loved it! Can you write some Noir smut too please? Where maybe the reader is like the female noir or something?A/N: Ask and you shall receive. Can't speak much for the quality but if you like murder and messy romances then buckle up! Please read the warnings above. This is a fucked up one.





	Bloody Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



 

**Tuesday 11:32 PM, across from the old Byron Substation**

 

The men that hang around smoking dope on the corner don’t know that the beige tarp in the back of her truck reeks of lavender. It’s the only thing that shrouds death-juice better than hazelnut coffee and day-old wintergreen dip. She buys the floral smelling fabric sheets in bulk from the discount mart off Washington Avenue - point oh’eight cents a sheet - and they work just as perfect for this as they do her tumble dried clothes. Also, she doesn’t use dip, never has, and hazelnut coffee is better used in a coffee maker; fueling her late nights and the early mornings where she removes sleep from her vocabulary altogether. 

 

In the back of the truck bed, she waits. The black eye from tonight grows and spreads. 

 

There’s an old canvas bag beside her full of manila folders from Dead Guy's house, along with two rusty hammers, a butchers knife and - in case anyone pulls a gun in this abandoned industrial street - a fully loaded Assault rifle. Mainly for show, but she’s used it twice with ample success and won’t hesitate to use it again. Despite how much she loves killing, she’s too weak to hold her own in a one on one. Creativity will only get her so far, so hazards are expected...

 

Those jittery guys watching her on the corner by the vine-sagging terminal station stand in slumped stupors, looking red-eyed under the dull street lamp even at this distance. 

 

Gentle flakes of ice float down like a settled snow globe, blanketing the despair until it’s almost charming; whimsical. One of them nods at her like she’s a common streetwalker but she blows out a curl of nicotine from her lit cigarette, turns her head from the wall of black decay blotting out the night and focuses on the cracked road near the four-way stop with its two remaining stop signs. 

 

He should be here by now, she thinks and flicks a red butt into the dusting snow, wincing as a headache pulsates around her right eye. It takes four seconds to light up another smoke and another minute to stop her knee from bouncing. 

 

A distant siren gets the guys across the street chatting like seniors during yahtzee, but she’s more anxious about this meeting than the cops. 

 

Fuck people... 

 

Pigs don’t come out this way which is why she’d suggested it despite being home to one of the highest crime rates in the city, not to mention kidnappings and rape. This is one of the shittier streets in the area where barely anyone actually lives despite an empty apartment sitting atop the Byron Substation. 

 

If anyone stays the night, then that’s it and if it’s not full of squatters freezing their asses off then it’s the rare drug deal or satanic ritual. People like hiding in the outer sections of the terminal station, fucking whatever they can, smoking crack, getting cheap blowjobs sometimes and all before marching onto the next waste of time. 

 

Tonight is a special occasion where she needs to interact with people, well… a person, without striking them in the back of the head with a hammer immediately afterward. It’s the first time she’ll be meeting up with Mr. Noir - one of the few or many cultists, though that word barely touches the surface. Even though they’ve been doing dead drops for months now, and Adam has contacted her on several occasions, she’s yet to need a reason to meet any of them face to face. This evening she’s got a thing that needs to be delivered in person: the dead guy. The encrypted email said her and Mr. Noir would be exchanging the documents she found in the basement to save time. 

 

He had to confirm the kill anyway… might as well check off two things from the list in one visit. 

 

Made sense to her. But what it really meant was that if she’d fucked him and the Noir on their promised cargo then she’d have worse problems than getting carted off to some hovel off the sidewalk to get molested.

 

Sensibility meant she didn’t want to hang around any longer than she had to, but even if he was running five minutes late, she had little choice but to smoke her cigarettes, suffer the black eye and wait. 

 

If the worst this street had to offer came galloping towards her, she had the assault rifle but that’d attract the cops and she already had a dead body stinking beside her… the butcher's knife would be more risky, but quiet. 

 

In the distance, headlights turn the corner, bright double-bulbs bouncing over the uneven road just as the cockstain on the corner starts making his way towards her. He was probably harmless. All these low life's just want to get their dicks sucked or get high and she’s had to tell guys like that to fuck off many times. 

 

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to stop smoking in order to tell him off because the car driving towards her curls its tires between her and Junkie Guy; hitting the brakes with a jerk of the suspension. The black sedan is low profile if not cheaper than she expected. It’s got a long trunk though, so she knows he’s more practical than superficial. 

 

Tinted windows provide her with nothing but her own reflection - a woman with flushed cheeks, a black eye around busted red vessels, wearing a red turtleneck sweater under a leather jacket; black leggings crossed at the ankles. She looks at herself looking inside the dark window and takes another drag off her cigarette, feeling a second swarm of nerves rise like bile. 

 

She fucking hates people...

  
  


**Tuesday 11:40 PM, in the mind of a lovesick sociopath...**

 

Despite the cold, she waits with dedication, fear, and desperation for him. It’s an ego trip, one he could fall into easily and one he’s fantasized over more than once. Several times at least.

 

She’s as he expected and more; beautifully busted and unhappy with mean, manic eyes framed by coneflower-brown hair. The little skin he can see beyond her winter clothes is columbine-white aside from the places where the cold snaps, turning her flesh incarnadine-red and radiant; irritated nerves rushing beneath. She stares at herself in the reflective glass window and he wonders if she sees the same gorgeous predator he does or if she’s too focused on the shiner swelling her cheekbone. 

 

She didn’t have the bruising last night, which means it’s fresh. 

 

He smirks, knowing she’ll need him to assist her carnage one day, and adjusts the mask around his chin with a thumb. Mr. Noir plucks the soft-brushed leather gloves from his black overcoat pocket and stretches them over his fingers. 

 

Knuckles crack and tendons burn as he stretches and flexes each digit to near breaking. If she gets out of hand, he’ll need to choke her out quickly without attracting any unwanted attention and then bring her back to Adam. This unpredictable nature of hers, among other things, is why it’s him surveillancing her and not Adam. He’s stronger than the little man with his schemes and spider webs and most of all… Mr. Noir is untroubled by taking matters into his own hands.

 

His obsession - Ayana Armstrong a.k.a. CanDie - stares through the window, past her own annoyed face and gives him a raised hand and bewildered expression. Ayana doesn’t like waiting. The little wrinkles around her petite nose say so without words. Though the words she does bark at him are muffled by the engine, weather stripping, and heavy orchestral metal running from the speakers, it’s clear she doesn’t want to hang around much longer. 

 

She’s not happy about being kept waiting. In the cold. In this bad part of the city where the men leer and fantasize about dragging her into the shadows… fucking her to death...

 

For a moment, he sits and stares; hands rubbing heat into his thick thighs until the blood stops pooling in his groin at the sight of her. 

 

It wasn’t part of any personal interest - just business - but he’s seen her naked more times than he’s had hot meals and over the months sending Adam video of her in private, it’s cathartic seeing her in person. She’s even better through a tinted car window than she is in HD lens and color correction, covered from neck to ankles as she is in black and red like some Harlequin. It’s no wonder Adam’s interested in her after scrubbing The Doll Makers files on her… 

 

She's better than her flesh, better than her tight, wet holes. Ayana is more important to them alive and killing than she is a fuck puppet with no strings.

 

She’s a murderer and she’s good at it… and Mr. Noir wants her in ways that transcend body and mind. He wants to corral her kills like cattle to the slaughter. She needs him. Soon she’ll want him. Her bloodthirst is too grandiose for such a slight frame to sustain. In other words… she’s weak while he’s all muscle and power.

 

They’d work well together once Adam has seen enough and gives the go ahead. 

 

By the shedding of blood, they know each other better than lovers… though fucking her has been a constant desire since the first time he saw her washing away the blood stains. The way her bruised fingers and hands had glided away softened clots from perfectly plump breasts, had gotten him harder than he’d ever been before. Watching her in all manner of states came with the territory. She was under review, she knew it, perhaps not the extent of it… but enough that she was being watched.

 

Mr. Noir strains in his seat, groaning at the poised and frustrated sight of her. She was like finding the vein that ran straight to the brain - shooting liquid oblivion around the body at three-feet per second. 

 

She was the only heaven he saw attainable - the only thing he truly wanted. Soon, he won’t be able to restrain himself. He’ll follow her on her next job with or without say so and watch the way she takes a person's soul for her own. 

 

When she throws her cigarette off to the side with a flick and rests a hand on the burlap sack beside her, he licks his lips, tasting hard polymer and puts the car in park. He yanks the emergency brake up, pops the trunk and unlocks the door, opening himself up to the overpowering smell of lavender-dabbed death and nicotine.

 

“Mr. Noir? Hah, fuck… if I’d known you were gonna go all out with the obscurity shit I’d ‘ave worn a Halloween mask too. I bet I’d have looked great in a knock-off Myers mask like yourself,” she tells him with a sweet-sounding Jersey lilt that’s been worn away by years further West. 

 

Wind-chapped lips curve in a blistering smile, painted the color of her vulva; the same rosy brown when he’d watched her masturbating on his cameras. The memory is hard to press down, but he manages. 

 

“Ever eloquent in person as on the page,” Mr. Noir remarks with the calm resolve he’s known for, refusing to trap himself in the urges of his body for now. 

 

Tonight is strictly business. 

 

Pleasure can come later. 

 

“Yeah, well… you’ve been keepin’ a weak lil’ girl like me waiting awhile. I’m a bit snappy...” she trails off and darts her eyes past the hood of his car towards the herd of scum across the street. He’s not troubled by them in the slightest and doesn’t look back even though she aims a look at him that says he should be - as though they’ll be an issue. 

 

Taking a breath that draws his black-sewn eyes towards her crimson-colored chest, Mr. Noir smiles secretly beneath the mask as she slides off the pickup truck bed with the gallantry of a woman who's had a long hard day. He wishes he could have seen her this afternoon. If only he’d have borne witness to the way she killed the man currently chilling under rough threading and, what he can only assume, is the fabric softener she keeps stocked in her utility closet. Yes, he’d been spending too much time watching her on the camera… much more than Adam needs him too.

 

Her boots crunch the fresh, hard snow kernels as she turns to the corpse; exposing the black-fleece curves of her ass. He pictures taking the plump globes in both hands, fisting the fabric until it tears down the middle and delving his hot, hard cock inside her until she’s pouring blood and sweet, musky fluids. 

 

She sniffles in the cold, looking stiff and jerky despite being the same woman who delivered him that pedophiles cock and balls last week - the same woman with that manic smile a few seconds ago. 

 

Something about his presence disturbs her. The intuition becomes concrete the more she glances back at him while pulling faded green folders from a duffle bag laden with implements of violence. 

 

“Is it the mask that bothers you, Ayana? - Or was it a rough night?”

 

“Don’t be cute with me. It’s CanDie... or don’t call me anything and no, it’s people. People bother me.”

 

She avoided the secondary question which confirms she scuffled with her kill tonight. 

 

“Those men on the corner?” He asks beneath the cold in his lungs. 

 

“... fucking assholes - dope fiends and rapists,” she mutters under her breath with steam trailing her words. 

 

“People like that are good business,” he replies evenly, taking the paperwork from her with a sneering smile she can’t see and adds, “All of their vices are exploitable. You can control a person if you know what brings them pleasure. Even pleasures like ours - like yours.”

 

“I know Adam is having someone tail me. Don’t need to see ‘em, but I know. He said so … so do spare me the fucking pep talk, alright? Pretty-“

 

“-please?” He finishes; thick and smooth like crystalline honey, “You know your vices are as important to us as your weaknesses. Someone got the better of you tonight.” 

 

She frowns as he taps the eye lip on his mask, gesturing to the black eye darkening around a gorgeous seafoam iris hugged by vermilion. 

 

“Job hazards… fuckers dead ain’t he?” she says, overcompensating for the physical and egoic pain it brings her by sounding joyously unconcerned. He’s seen her twirl in her apartment while cooking steaks; beautifully disturbed as grindhouse gore-porn plays from the little TV set on her countertop. 

 

“This one is,” he answers critically, enjoying the way her curled grin twitches. 

 

He tosses the folders inside the running car where warmth billows from the crackling heater - where he pictures throwing her inside, locking the door and cutting her sweater up to her neck. Perhaps he’d lift up the mask and tear into those breasts like a man ripe with hunger. It’s a fleeting thought and as soon as she starts tugging at the folded, roped up corpse the rot of death mixes with the humid cold and the blood backtracks from his lower body as fast as heat from aluminum. 

 

Few rules kept him from doing what he likes, but he isn’t a rapist. If he takes her, she’ll come willingly. Besides… he had more to offer her and vice versa. 

 

They were made for one another. 

 

What fluid rules he does have, do not stop him from reaching out to brush snow off her leather shoulder, though. She jumps under the pressure of his palm and flings herself against the truck until the chassis screams and he can’t stop the grin at her reaction. 

 

“I see,” he muses with hot gravel, “... more than what’s on display.” 

 

He had a feeling there were more bruises than just the black eye, which means tonight was closer than he’d thought - much closer than she’d wanted. Mr. Noir is sure of that. 

 

There’s a cold shade of jade in her eyes before the emerald color turns warm again; reliving carnage. He wants nothing more than to have been there, watching her work - watching and relishing the sight of whatever scuffle left the little drop of dried blood below the crease of her turtleneck. He hadn’t seen the stain before, but this close… it’s evident and arousing and he wants to suck it from her while she rocks in his lap and sings him the whole event in gory gushing detail. 

 

“Look, Mr. Noir… I know you gotta test me and all, but I got one rule: don’t fucking touch me. I’m not into pleasantries and don’t need small talk or concern.”

 

She looks like she wants to say more but bites her tongue - the poppy-red of it arousing enough to make him draw in a ragged inhale. 

 

“... so,” she continues with a fake smile, “help me get this cunt in the trunk or step back.”

 

Obviously, she snapped Mr. Hitch - the worthless waste of space - and folded him into a relatively oblong shaped rectangle, tied the corpse off and lifted it by herself into the truck. She’s capable - it’s why Adam is interested in recruiting her and why he himself wants her so terribly but if she needs him at an arm's length, then so be it. He can play by her rule. For now.

 

“You’ve done enough, CanDie,” he whispers saccharine and channels his lust into velvet passion while watching her cheeks redden with the cold… or something more provocative maybe. 

 

Her bare hands fall away from the bundled corpse as he moves in and hefts it under a thick arm, cinching the side rope around oiled-leather knuckles and nods towards the back of his idling car. 

 

It clicks and sputters but the trunk stands ajar and she wastes no time lifting it up. For a second she blinks and pales, stepping back from the contents he’s left in there that morning: a portable surgeons kit, VPN hubs, broken mini cameras - the same kind he’d installed in her apartment months ago - and one large shovel. There are more odds and ends, but Mr. Noir imagines its the shovel that spooks her because she doesn’t know anything being recorded. Her background doesn’t show she’s done anything with the bodies once they’re dead. She’s a kill and run type of lady… and despite the glee she’s known for, she’s also spooked by certain things. 

 

Maybe being buried alive is a fear of hers.

 

She’s been around. Knows the game. No one opens a stranger’s trunk, finds a used shovel and doesn’t picture themselves rotting six feet under. 

 

She wants to ask but she doesn't. True to her word, she doesn’t do small talk. Says nothing else to him while he cuts back the burlap to expose what was once a recognizable face. Crushed in utter ruin around the eye sockets and right temporal bone.

 

He pops the lock on his surgeons kit, works quickly to get the bite down for dental matching and smirks when the indents line up. She did good, as usual, and she knows it; leaning against the gas tank with a sidelong smile as the snow floats down around them.

 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he tells her, slamming the trunk, “I’ll be in touch.”

 

Her payment is taken with a maliciously gorgeous grin. The white envelope goes straight inside her jacket where she zips it tight over those heaving breasts, surveys the area and gets in her truck. 

 

The engine cranks like a dry knife dragging on ten years worth of bubble-rust but in a minute her tail lights are gone and Mr. Noir is left standing in snowflake rain and the leftover odor of cigarettes and lavender oil. Forever he’ll equate the smell to her. 

 

Tonight, he’ll rewind the footage of her showering off the days rot and resist the urge to stroke himself to the nonconsensual sight of her. 

 

Soon, Adam will have all the footage he needs to make a decision and if Mr. Noir keeps the cameras going that will be his own vice to contend with. Already he knows that once the decision is made and she’s crowned, the cameras are getting killed and he’ll have to propose himself for her whims. Let her shove him down and put him in his place. Tell him what to do and where she needs him or for what purpose, be it assisting in her bloodlust or getting fucked into her mattress with her hands around his throat.

 

She is utterly and madly perfect, and he is no better than a slave to her…

 

He can’t imagine a better way to spend his life.

  
  


**Wednesday 12:44 AM at Edward’s Apartment: Room 104**

 

The first thing she does when her door is locked is check that the motion sensors haven’t been triggered, are on and the cameras she installed in the hallway is clear of unwanted visitors. Then she runs a bath and throws her clothes in the washer. They reek of Dead Guy’s apartment - dusty grease - and the cloying, pine-scented cologne he’d worn so heavily. Below it is blood too, and while she likes that odor, it’s faint below the powerful stench of the evening.

 

It’d been close this time - the killing had nearly gone wrong - but she loves the power too much to stop even when it’s a hairline away from nothingness. Dead Guy thought she’d be an easy little lay with all the right sounds coming out of her mouth but he’d been wrong. One jarring hand between her legs, a fumble and cold cock to her temple and he was promptly skull fucked; brain dead and broken. 

 

Luck got her an angle on him without taking another knuckle drag to the face, but the fucker had her pinned for half a minute before she’d clawed herself free and turned the tables not a second after that...

 

Now that she’s home, there’s no one to stare at her as she dabs the black bruise with tears in her eyes. 

 

Yeah, it fucking hurts and now that she’s warm and safe inside, the cold outdoors isn’t stealing the pain. The headache is in full season; squeezing soft gummy nerves.

 

She takes a bag of frozen mixed vegetables from the freezer and lays them over her eye, relishing the cold burn as she slides through her apartment on bare toes, flowing like a ballerina out of practice towards the humidified bathroom and the tub filled with lavender scented oil and epsom salts. 

 

Tomorrow, the black eye will be worse but after a while, it’ll fade like all the other blemishes scattering her body. 

 

She hisses with each inch laid to rest beneath hot water; icy vegetables still held against her eye. 

 

She’s unaware of the pinhead holes drilled within the popcorn ceiling above her head - needles in haystacks - that records her washing off the sour smell of death. 

 

Dead Guy had been an all-around cumstain on the world and she was happy to scrub him off. 

 

She grins as the guttural, wet gasps of Dead Guy’s broken body returns to her; recalling all the sharp little edges of blood-slick bone and mushy brain-matter. Off-red water drains around her pinkened skin, pulling the fine dust from her hair, reminding her of the hot spray and drizzle of blood down her arms. She’d burned the black shirt she’d worn to the job, and donned his ex-wife’s sweater after cutting out the tags and setting those on fire too. 

 

Her body is still brimming with excess - excess adrenaline and tension and bloodlust that’s grown into sexual lust after the drop off with Mr. Noir. She smiles indulgently and hums while scooting down along slick laminate until the faucet gushes heated water over her rosy, clean cunt. The barreling sleek tempo of it gets her gasping immediately. 

 

Water is a lover that doesn’t talk. 

 

She jerks and jerks and wrings the sides of the tub until her moans fly away along the scream of fake porcelain and squeaky skin. There’s no inhibitions here because she’s no reason to feel anything but alone. 

 

Her leg falls limp over the edge of the tub; toes curling. 

 

Water batters her folds and clit and everything between until she’s running fingers through her damp hair, combing the strands in her noisy search for a release while working her cunt under the pounding stream. 

 

A colorful image of Dead Guy choking around the head of a hammer as she slammed it into his esophagus makes her hips bounce. The featureless mask of Mr. Noir infiltrates her mind as well, but he’s got nothing on the pleasure Dead Guy’s death gurgles gave her. The thin, greasy man had buckled with both hands clutching his throat, falling to the floor like the devil had landed on his shoulders… but it was her hammer in the top of his head instead. Nothing holy about it.

 

_ ‘Leave his teeth. I need to match up the dental records.’ _

 

She feels the water hammering relentlessly and her body lurch into hot pleasure. Gushes of steaming liquid swims over her stomach and ribs and down the crack of her ass and all the while she replays the moment her victim burped up blood as he died; twitching on the floor in a spreading pool of brackish red. 

 

The sound… it was pure pornographic heaven. 

 

“Fuck me… fuck me good,” she moans like a whore that’s faking it but its all honest filth and it just heightens the bliss for that epic moment of total euphoria before the pleasure turns harsh and stabbing, sending her hips forward so the faucet races in the dip of her navel. 

 

She swallows lungfuls of oxygen as her mind floods with endorphins. The release of tension in every major and minor muscle is just as sweet as killing. A necessary pair to the bloodshed at this point. The faucet and she have become fast friends these past few months. 

 

“There’s a good, boy,” she sighs with a smile… seeing Mr. Noir’s placid mask behind her eyelids again for whatever reason. Sure, he’d been attractive - what was visible of him at least. Tall and muscled in all the right places. Dense neck with a high buzz but despite the cold and gloved hands big enough to crush her face between edge and fingers. Yeah, he’d be fun. 

 

Fucker called her Ayana, though…

 

She relaxes in a mild stupor while hot water streams down her body, parting around her breasts and down her neck like forked rivers while she replays the day and what it’d be like to have Mr. Noir’s cock dragging through tight wet muscles; pink inner flesh hugging the width with every retreat. 

 

Her cunt pounds at the thought and her breasts tingle in the drying cold as her cheeks throb in time with the pulsation between her legs. 

 

For sanity's sake, she lowers the water pressure and lets the fluid pound her into another orgasm as the bag of vegetables lays like a lukewarm counterweight over her eye before calling it quits. 

 

Water leaks out of her with each subtle contraction and the rest pours out when she sits up, ready for bed. 

 

Tomorrow there’ll be another dossier waiting for her just like he promised and she truly can't fucking wait.

  
  


**Wednesday 5:02 AM at the Marx Sage Industrial Complex: Top Floor**

 

Cum surges through his cock, shooting ropey wads along the washcloth laid over the desk as he replays the footage of Ayana pulling at her hair - twisting it beside the blossoming bruise around her eye - while climaxing under the tub faucet. 

 

It’s a recording from four hours ago, but he can still smell the leftovers of lavender on his clothes and that, coupled with reviewing the footage after delivery, was too much. 

 

Another jet of sticky white shoots through him, painting the hem of blue cotton; dribbling to the black laminate desk below. 

 

He’s a monster. 

 

Scum. 

 

His Obsession becomes an addiction - one he wants to spend his life indulging, protecting and watching kill and kill and kill over again until the blood is in both their pores and her lust eventually turns to him. 

 

He heaves over the keyboard with an arm shaking and a palm flat on the desk with his cock dribbling the last dregs of semen from his own pleasure and savors the high before gross guilt comes washing the euphoria away. 

 

Four-hour old Ayana strokes her stiff nipples until they’re the same shade as her blazing cunt and for a moment he loses himself again; squeezing his softening cock until a final drop flows over the tip. 

 

Mr. Noir would trade in the life he’s built over the past ten years just to stuff his bare face against that hot, silky cunt - just to have her hang off him as though he’s as beloved as the murder she loves so dearly. He’d sell his family, if he had any, just to throw her prey around for her and watch as she feasts. 

 

Once the high of his orgasm enters its refractory period, he’s left with nothing but disgust for himself. 

 

Seeing her blowing smoke and hiding her cold fingers in those warm jacket pockets tonight, all without the distance a computer monitor provides has increased her hold on him. He’s not blaming her… not entirely. The bruise was what did him in, perhaps. 

 

That crescent moon of stale blood swimming beneath malleable porcelain… it’s not the only mark on her. There are many, but the stages of caestious-green to mottled haematic are unreal compared to the vividity of that black eye; so fresh and swollen and alive with pain. 

 

This surveillance he’s been running for Adam seems almost cruel now. It hasn’t been necessary for a while, but it’s been a passive excuse for him to watch her while she’s at her most private and maybe for Adam to have blackmail on her if the worst should happen. It is here, with cum dripping off his cockhead, that he finally feels like the rotten voyeur he is.

 

As his cock softens in his palm, a moment of moral clarity strikes him like a blunt bludgeoning. While the video of her slowly rocking her hips for second helpings continues, he swipes the cursor across three monitors and taps ‘cancel’ on the upload to Adam. Instead, he sends two words…

 

‘She’ll do.’

 

… and hits send. 

 

Adam won’t be getting his daily zip file of voyeuristic delicacies tonight if he even has time to view more than a quarter of it or the desire to explore further than he needs to. 

 

“No more,” he growls, looking at her a final time, staring at the way she cums. Listening to the grainy quality of her moans as she reaches another shivering climax, before deactivating each camera one by one. 

 

She’s more than a hot cunt, he tells himself as though he needs the reminder while destroying all traces of her. He’ll still have the motion tracker on her truck, but for now… she’s as incognito as it gets for being nothing more than a recruit. 

 

Mr. Noir begins the long, torturous process of deleting every video and file and scrap of info from his setup. The backlog of each video codec is written down in physical documents so it’ll be easy to trace the movement of the digital files in case something were to happen to Adam, though he doubts the man doesn’t already have a failsafe set up in case that occurs.

 

Mr. Noir watches the progress bar trudges towards the finish line - towards the trash - and decides he’ll offer Ayana membership even if Adam turns his nose up at her. The cult won’t mind if he wants to pretend she’s his personal fuck toy with a side of murder lust. They’d be none the wiser…

 

“Ayana…” he breathes, smelling the bare traces of lavender still stuck in his clothes. 

 

He wipes away the errant drop of cum from the desk and a smudge from the tile floor before throwing the soaked washcloth in the bin where he’ll trash it later, along with the rest of the evidence that proves he’s no better than the scum surrounding him. 

 

After the files are deleted and he’s got his cock tucked away behind a black zipper and belt buckle, he sits down - feeling oddly alive - and sends Ayana her next job. 

 

This time, he needs to watch her in action before bringing her to the penthouse. 

  
  


**Wednesday 8:12 AM at Edward’s Apartment: Room 104**

 

‘Attached are several photos and credentials for the following social media accounts. Leave the body in the bathtub. We’re sending a message with this one.’

 

Pretty damn obscure, she thought idly, scrolling through the sites listed before logging into each one with a fist in her cheek. This part was always the more boring, but necessary part of the job. She jots down the street address where soon to be Dead Guy lives and works and looks through Trent Randazzo's email client for more information. There are emails back and forth between him and three different ladies, one of whom seems to be a long-term relationship as opposed to the obvious flings the other two women represent. 

 

Also, lots of porn updates. Amature shit too. 

 

After several minutes, she concludes he’s fucking these bitches and uploading their nudes and personal videos to numerous deep web porn sites. Typical, she thinks with an eye roll and puff of breath. She scrolls further down past offers for dick pills and foot cream and takes a sip from a grape juice box.

 

After combing through all she cares to know about the man, she checks out his calendar and grins.

 

“Finally, someone who uses the calendar app. Fucking scatterbrain… little-dicked scatterbrain, too it seems. Can’t make the ladies squeal so you gotta be a shitbird and rat ‘em out,” she mutters to herself and clicks her tongue with a private smirk, “Real big bad boy you are, Trent...” 

 

The guy, whose last day on earth will be tomorrow, doesn’t have a single entry in his schedule that isn’t riddled with typos and shorthand. He’s a busy man, but tomorrow night he’ll have to say bye-bye to - what she assumes are - drug deals and hookups. Someone doesn’t like that he’s got two girlfriends on the side and while it’s lovesick and droll, CanDie cracks her knuckles with anticipation. 

 

She lounges around for an hour, eats a pork chop with mint jelly and only rouses herself when the computer ‘bloops’ with new mail. Mr. Noir sends her an encrypted message with a bank transfer link for half the payment down. 

 

A note in the bottom of the email reads…

 

‘I’ll deliver the rest when he’s been taken care of, plus an extra grand, if you agree to receive the balance in person. Pick a secure location for tomorrow, one where you feel comfortable and we’ll talk further business.’

 

She doesn’t like that and sneers at the words before mouthing them off again as if she can find the ulterior motive between the lines. If it’s something to do with The Noir, then Adam can contact her. Why does it need to be him?

 

‘... in person.’

 

For what reason besides initiation? To what extent does this so-called business reach?

 

She decides quickly that there’s no reason for them to meet face to face again unless the decision comes from Adam himself. If Mr. Noir wants to hear her lovely voice again, then he can use a burner like the rest of them. This job doesn’t need verification so his reasons are nothing but suspicious.

 

She reads the email again and sinks into her computer chair - arms crossed under the free breasts beneath her black shirt - and chews her inner cheek in deeper thought. 

 

A part of her wouldn’t mind seeing him again, though she’s unsure why. If it’s a sexual desire, she’s fine taking care of those by herself. Usually, the reality of such encounters pales in comparison to what her imagination can conjure, and while he’s attractive from what she’s seen… it’s not nearly enough to tempt her into another physical meeting with no real reason behind it. 

 

“I don’t think so,” she says to the empty air and sends him a ‘thanks, but no thanks’ reply, hits send and rolls back away from the desk to get some proper clothes on. 

 

It isn’t until later in the night, around ten-thirty that she pulls her boots on and notices - however faintly - a buzz in the air. It feels like the beginning of a migraine, but the little dots in her left eye are absent, meaning it can't be that. It also, can’t be the TV or the radio because those are already shut off, along with the router and the VPN. Everything except the motion detectors and hallway cameras is switched off and yet… she gets up, following the hum with a frown.

 

The sound leads her into her bathroom. It doesn’t come from the pipes, nor the toilet or the outlets. 

 

She feels sweat on the back of her neck as she looks up at the steady light fixture above her head. It’s coming from above. Glaring, she flips the light switch off.

 

The humming continues.

 

She sees it the second she flips the light back on as if the exposure doesn’t reach it as fast as it does the rest of the ceiling - a little screw-sized hole inside white popcorn stares down above the bone-dry bathtub. It’s opalescent now that she’s staring at it. Dark lens watching where she showers and fucks herself.

 

A morbid sense of weakness surrounds her like a fog. Never before has she felt so exposed while being alone in the sanctuary of her own home. The hum continues like ants in her brain; digging deeper and deeper and further insider until she’s dragging a hammer out the duffle bag by the front door and pulling a chair up beside the tub. 

 

The weak plaster shreds under the back of the hammer, unfolding like thick paper with the soft fluttering spray of whatever shit they put in the ceiling. Another solid hack and yank, and a little camera sags out; hooked into her wiring with black and neon yellow chords. It’s the same micro camera that’d been inside Mr. Noir’s trunk the other night. 

 

“That fucking shitheel,” she snarls, remembering the words Adam said to her through the burner months back. 

 

‘Impress us. We’ll be watching you.’ 

 

She hadn’t thought that meant placing cameras in her apartment. Though, in retrospect, it should have been obvious. They wanted to know everything about her, even how her tits looked in the tub or what book she reads while sitting on the toilet. No doubt there are many more similar lenses installed in all corners of her home…

 

The fact that Mr. Noir has something to do with this is what really gets her sweating...

 

The little camera continues humming insultingly, growling at her until she grimaces and rips it free. Then, in a triggering reaction, a dozen similar buzz-tones starts up. The rest of the cameras shriek as the electrical bridge breaks, singing in tandem which isn’t as reassuring as it should be, but CanDie flips the hammer in her fist and decides she’d rather be an hour late to her murder-date than come home to this fucking serenade.

 

Sixty-minutes is all it takes to dig thirteen more cameras out of her walls and sixty-minutes is all it takes to come up with about three months worth of vitriol and a plan to get Mr. Noir back for the breach in privacy.

  
  


**Wednesday 11:01 PM, across from 1401 Helen Street**

 

Mr. Noir has been waiting across the street in a low-profile sedan that reeks of lavender fabric softener. He’s been sitting in the punctuated silence - errant gunshots and screams ushering in the distance - for over two hours when Ayana and her hammer finally show up. 

 

She’s on foot, he notes with a smile beneath the white polymer. If she’s walking it means she parked somewhere far away before heading to the marks address. It’ll be interesting to see how she moves, either cautiously or high-strung and fast after the kill. Is she someone who can hold her head after the slaughter? - or does she get manic and brazen? Time will tell. 

 

Tonight will tell. 

 

She walks along the sidewalk, in the open air as if nothing could stop her. Odd, but he admires the confidence in not getting caught. 

 

Perhaps she’s better able to disappear if she’s strolling along like someone without an agenda would, though the hammer could be unnerving to some. He assumes she’ll race into the shadows denting the poorly kept houses scattered down the street when the task is completed, well… maybe not if she’s unmarked by blood or bone matter. This neighborhood is a beacon of poverty and overgrowth after all. Easy to get lost in plain sight if she wants… easy to disappear…

 

… it’s doubtful anyone is watching after all. Anyone, except for him.

 

He waits a moment longer until she’s vanished around the side of the house, wringing the steering wheel inside the dark, chilled cab like it’s her delectable, snow-white throat he’s bruising. He’s left the gloves on the passenger seat tonight. For some reason, he wants to watch her with as little clothing on as possible. The black shirt and equally pitch colored canvas pants will have to make do against the cold because he wants to feel the breeze on him when she kills… or the heat of the house if he can find a good point of entry without disturbing her hunt.

 

Another minute passes before he slides out the sedan, gently clicks the door shut and crosses the street. 

 

There’s a gun in his back pocket and a knife in both boots. This part of Helen Street is barren but for a few rented bungalows. All the crossfire from the past two hours has been a few streets over on Nader Avenue, far enough away to be of no concern.

 

It’s still a shitty place to hang one's coat, but Mr. Noir feels little to no threat whilst stepping through overgrown grassy knolls and onward to the back patio where the sliding door is neatly ajar. It’s as though Ayana had left it so. An easier exit should the worst arise. 

 

Clever girl, he thinks with a smirk.

 

Light spills out like a culled sunray, blanketing the more well-trimmed frozen grass around the concrete slab of the backyard. Inside, he can’t see her but there’s a knock upstairs so he casually invites himself inside as the footsteps continue overhead. 

 

Carefully, he eases the door back into its previous position. 

 

There’s little time to slip around into the darkness by what he assumes is a pantry, so he doesn’t move when glass shatters above and Trent Randazzo comes tumbling down the stairs, taking a few picture frames with him as he goes. The man falls into a heap at the foot of the stairs, groaning and bleeding.

 

Ayana takes two stairs at a time while Trent whimpers. He crawls along the floor - parallel to Mr. Noir’s view - and heads towards the front door but he’s slow and that leg he drags behind him is obviously broken.

 

It’s not professional of her to miss Mr. Noir watching her over the kitchen bar at her three o’clock, but he’s too focused on admiring the languid way her legs bend and stretch, drawing closer to her kill with that hammer hopping in her fist. She loves that piece of wood and steel… he knows… he wonders what she’d do if he fucked her with the handle - if she’d lay back and take it with a heavy sigh or growl and demand for his hot cock instead.

 

He watches. Takes her in as she circles her prey with a little giggle. The tight ponytail sways like a pinwheel when she bounces on her feet, humming a jaunty tune before kicking away the shard of glass Trent reaches out for. 

 

Ayana nudges him over on his back with the tip of her boot, cocks her head to the side and smiles in the darkness. 

 

“... any last words? It might seem cliche but most people wanna say a ‘lil somethin’ beforehand,” she whispers; sugar-kernels grating and sweet. 

 

There’s nothing but a winded, choking silence and the sound of Mr. Noir’s heart racing.

 

“Seriously?” She half-laughs, sweeping clicks of glass with her heel before bending low over Trent and whispering, “... I still think you should have recovered from that smack to the throat by now. You’re kinda coming across as a-“

 

Ayana hears it a millisecond before Mr. Noir does. The squeak of carpet softened wood boards under another pair of feet. 

 

She turns hard and inhales in surprise as an unnamed man lunges a shoulder into her side, knocking her back into the spray of shag-slippery glass. Ayana groans in pain and Mr. Noir’s heel skids the tile, nearly interrupting the scuffle but he stops - heart thudding faster - and waits. Watching. 

 

Ayana snarls and kicks her assailant in the stomach as he tries to pin her down. It was a precise hit because he sucks in a gasp and curls to the floor. Liver kick most like. That will knock the wind out of anyone, man or woman or either in between.

 

Beside her, Trent is rolling to his elbows, snatching up that shard of glass with a crunch and river of shiny blood but he doesn’t get in the stab on her that he attempts because she’s too fast - too perceptive while hunting. 

 

Her hammer swings across glass strewn carpet and smacks him upwards across the jaw. Something white shoots from his mouth on a river of blood - a tooth - and just like that he’s down like dead weight. Trent’s jaw is probably broken judging by the way his mouth hangs open against the floor.

 

Mr. Noir stands silently, breathing raggedly beneath his crossed arms as Ayana gets back to her feet, throwing a kick into the second man’s stomach that sends him further into himself; holding his undercarriage. 

 

She grumbles something under her breath, something vulgar and private and wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of a sleeve before something catches her eyes and then… she’s staring right at him. 

 

He digs his short nails into his forearm and gazes at her through the thin black fabric eyes of his mask, feeling his cock engorge with blood; straining against the zipper. She looks momentarily spooked but the expression fades to a cool acknowledgment with the hint of distaste. Unfortunately, that second she spends staring Mr. Noir gives the man she’d kicked in the liver enough time to hug her ankles and take her down to her knees. 

 

She gasps beautifully, but it’s in pain again and Mr. Noir cannot hold himself back this time. He begins the languid walk across the tile floor to the carpet as the second man tugs a knife out of his back pocket while Ayana is momentarily stunned. The blade catches the moonlight from outside the glass doors and the little oven light behind them but it doesn’t make it to the intended target. 

 

Mr. Noir seizes the little worms wrist, snaps it until the bone cracks and kicks a booted sole in his chest, throwing him back where he belongs. 

 

“W-what… what the fuck are you?” The man stutters and demands; sounding incredibly weak and lame now that another man is the one pressing him down. Scum, Mr. Noir thinks madly as the beautiful, bloodthirsty creature watching him from the floor studies the both of them. Her eyes dance across the man sputtering on the floor, along the boot pinning him down and up along Mr. Noir’s bulging groin where his erection lays trapped and further up until her eyes lock with his blackened ones. 

 

He wants her madly, deeply; inside and out. 

 

Ayana wheezes, moves to her knees and stands. For a short second, she eyes the obvious erection between his thighs before picking her hammer back up off the floor. 

 

“For the record,” she tells him, dabbing at a shallow cut on her chin with the back of a hand where some glass has sliced her whey-colored skin open and alive, “I could have handled both these fuckers on my own.”

 

Mr. Noir smiles behind the mask and nods because he has no doubt she could. Maybe she’d leave with a few more bruises than when she arrived, but she would have managed them both. She’s the personification of a reaper in skin so sweet he wants it in his mouth to suck and lick. 

 

Slowly, so slowly, he takes his foot off the man’s chest as the worm pants and drools and tries to reach an unbroken hand around to gather the knife on the floor, endlessly trying to survive. Animal logic in the face of a stronger, more adaptive predator. All it takes is a light kick of his boot to send the knife across the room, away from the man’s fingers.

 

Ayana gives Mr. Noir a toothy grin, swings her hammer in a pinwheel before the smile turns into a monstrous grimace and she bends, bashing the man’s forehead in with the blunt end of the juicy hammer.

 

Crunchy and wet. The sound is like her twisting under the streaming facet; broken moans and staggered sobs.

 

Another wack sends a soft warm spray of blood across the shins of his pants, so cloying that it heats the skin beneath. A third hit sinks into the brain below judging by the sound and the fourth hugs the hammer until Ayana is bracing a heel on the man’s wet, bloody throat, trying to yank the lodged thing out. 

 

“Fucker!” She snarls. 

 

“Gimme back,” a grunt and jerk, “my fucking hammer!” 

 

The bulbous bit of steel comes out like a champagne cork but the well of blood that flows is like a thick, sluggish bubble and not the geyser she seemingly wants. Still, the gratified sound she makes gets his cock pulsing thickly, growing so hard it feels like a rod of hot steel weighing him down.

 

There’s a moment of silence before she steps back several feet, ignoring the blood bubbles from Trent on the floor. The original mark is still alive but won’t be going anywhere nor will they last long.

 

Mr. Noir takes steps over the dead man before he can expel himself, steps over the twitching body of Mr. Randazzo and finds himself closing in on Ayana as she slowly backs up, eyes on his mask in hurried motions as though trying to find a crack in the alabaster white. She won’t. 

 

He needs her… just a touch of the cheek - just a dab of blood off the clotting slice on her chin.

 

She hates that she can’t see his intentions written on his face, but Ayana wouldn’t see them there anyway, mask or not. He’s good at remaining placid in the face of villainous delights and the worst fetishes humanity has to offer. If nothing has made his mouth curl yet, then little else will. Little else, except her.

 

“I know it was you,” she tells him with blood drying on her chin like a black gem-droplet.

 

He cocks his head to the side in question and takes another step closer until she’s back up against the bar blocking off the kitchen from the living space. Her body heat is stifling - all that adrenaline rushing through her bloodstream like a poison that needs lancing. Mr. Noir knows how she expunges it - knows what she needs but won’t touch her unless she-

 

“Adam had you install those cameras, didn’t he? Betcha got yourself a nice peep show didn’t ya?”

 

Again, he keeps his mouth shut, but after a second of silence nods. 

 

The confirmation of her fears makes vermilion rush under the thin, porcelain-like skin of her cheeks until he exhales a starved, ravenous breath behind the mask and rests a naked hand on the counter beside her; blocking off one exit. The tension is heavy; iron flavoring mixing with the suddenly overwhelming smell of lavender oil. She smells good enough to masticate… swallow and digest if he were into that type of vice.

 

Ayana glares up at him, raking her teeth across a juicy lower lip before parting her mouth like a surgeon stretching open serrated muscle. “I think you owe me somethin’ for all that free spank material,” she says with venomous lust that draws him closer until he finally rests his body against her own.

 

“Let me...” he manages, feeling overwhelmed by the whole of her, “allow me to apologize.” 

 

Watching her hammer that man’s forehead in was better than watching her fuck the water streams on camera. Mr. Noir wants to give her a taste of the pleasure he can bring and the selflessness with which he can gift it. He wants to show her just how much he loves her, inside and out and all the nooks and spaces between.

 

“Go on then,” she whispers.

 

Mr. Noir’s stomach tightens as his other hand grips the countertop, hugging her in against the granite with his groin stuffed below her navel. She inhales, feeling it there but doesn’t push him away or jump like the night he’d put his hand on her shoulder. Ayana tips her wounded chin back and glares in welcome.

 

It’s hard to tell by looking at her, but when she lays a hand on his corded wrist, it’s apparent how much she shivers with need. 

 

He wants to grab her throat and run her into the side wall beside the fridge where he can pin her and yank her tight leggings down - where he can fuck her relentlessly until her ankles hook around his back and she cums around him with tears streaming down her face. He wants to ruin her with himself so that she’ll return the favor and destroy him but he doesn’t move until she wraps those blood-scuffed fingers around his wrist, drawing his hand down against her stomach. 

 

He steps back enough - just enough to turn his palm against her navel and slide his fingers down past the elastic waistband of her thermal leggings. The smooth, fine skin above her vulva is warm and moist. An inch down and the world becomes a musky pool of slippery flesh. With this single touch, she owns him.

 

Ayana swallows, stares up into the eyeholes of the mask as if she can see the wide, obsessive orbs memorizing every muscle twitch on her face. 

 

She’s gorgeous; licking her lips frantically as his fingers bathe in the copious fluids leaking from her beautiful, sweet cunt. For tonight he’ll feed her with his fingers… and then she’ll hunger for more - for all of him. To have her begging for him would be the sweetest sound.

 

“... this isn’t gonna happen again, so ya better make the most of it,” she breathes out, already holding in a moan as he gently pinches her swollen clit until the fluids make everything so hot and smooth it’s hard to get a decent grip. Her gaze flickers from him to the carnage behind him and because Mr. Noir is self-confident enough to know his purpose tonight and willing to prove to her his undying loyalty, he chuckles and carefully twists her around. 

 

She nearly trips up as his hand fists the slight fat and muscle around her cunt, helping direct her by one hand between her thighs and another around her elbow until she’s faced with the corpse and Trent. The man is still wheezing on the floor and the way Ayana starts breathing tells Mr. Noir he made the right move. 

 

Carefully, so as not to spook her, he nudges her behind the ear with the lip of his mask and inhales the perfume of her hair while delving his cunt-softened fingers back along her clit; swirling it in varying pressures until she begins rocking along with his touch. She moans loud enough to make Trent on the floor rouse inside his pain. 

 

“Fuck,” she gasps and bears back into his hips, pinning his starved cock to his thigh hard enough he can’t help but growl. 

 

“Tell me what feels good,” he says behind the mask, against the loose strands of her ponytail. 

 

Mr. Noir listens to her gasping against his touch while looking at the masterpiece she’s created across the floor, and asks her again, “... tell me?” while inching his other hand around the hip band of her leggings. 

 

He glides his dry fingers across her bare ass, down a soft globe and further between her cheeks, working his wrist to unwedge the black cotton from her crack until he’s fingering the leaking hole of wetness he wants more of. 

 

As she arches - shoulders digging into his chest - he touches his fingers together, both hands combing through wet folds and stuffs two fingers inside her cunt. Ayana inhales, spreads her thighs and arches back along his firm chest. The swollen bead of clitoral nerves throbs beneath his touch as Ayana sobs like a broken lamb when he pauses to pinch it again. 

 

“Does this,” he asks with throaty passion as his fingers dart through tight, hot muscles, “... feel good?” 

 

Ayana raises her arms, threading fingers around the back of his neck and begins bouncing against his hands. He leans down as her fingers readjust amidst the sweat, digging into his shaved scalp. 

 

She’s speechless, due to pleasure he hopes. As long as she’s writhing and moaning and enjoying his work, he doesn’t care about a response. 

 

Her grip tightens, nails in his neck, before thrusting down on his fingers faster. She leans back, allowing an extra inch of room so he can thrust and fuck three full fingers inside her while starting a vicious stroking over her clit. 

 

All the while - as she gets closer and closer - Trent twitches in his death throes, succumbing to the pain or the brain damage or anything that a hammer to the head could cause. 

 

As her mark dies, Mr. Noir shoves the heel of his hand into her pelvis, mashes down on her clit as she chokes and moans and twists his wrist against her ass, darting inside her constricting channel until the little spongy bundle of nerves deep within firms up and her body leaks and dribbles; staining his skin…

 

“Ayana,” he says her name as she trembles in climax; sounding so beautifully torn asunder that he thinks about throwing her over the counter and fucking her further into oblivion. 

 

He won’t. 

 

He doesn’t. 

 

Mr. Noir strokes her through the best of it and feels her contractions slurp softly around his fingers until she drives her hips away from his running circles. 

 

A hiss tells him when to pull back. Too much - she’s too tender, he thinks, incredibly pleased with himself. 

 

Ayana sighs as he slips his sodden fingers free from her heated cunt. She moans when he cups her under the navel, leaving her lower body to soak up the pleasure he just gave her. The sag of her weight - fingers loose around the back of his neck - means she’ll fall to her knees if he lets her go, so he holds on tight and breathes heavily beneath the stifling mask. 

 

If Adam had returned his email, informing him Ayana Armstrong was officially part of The Noir, then he’d have pulled back the mask and kissed her neck… perhaps lain her back beside all the death and cleansed her pleasure away with his tongue. 

 

The soft salty smell of skin beneath lavender and blood makes his mouth water. 

 

“You ain't in love with me or something are ya?” She asks; panting still; sounding weak enough to tempt him further. 

 

Her elbows tremble, so he helps her by hugging her to his chest until she finally - with a great sigh - lets her arms fall to her sides. 

 

“Yes,” he admits, lying his masked mouth against the side of her face where he can just barely make out the glistening bulb of one eye as it shifts across the scene before them. 

 

Whether his admittance is met with rejection or open arms, it is better to let her know now rather than later. He wouldn’t do what he just did for anyone… lust is one thing he’s never been overly concerned for. Lust is a fleeting thing but coupled with a passionate loving thirst, it’s bottomless. 

 

He knows Ayana can feel his desire against her backside, denting across the valley of supple ass. He bends his knees a scant inch and rolls his hips up against her; feeling the way she jerks back gently against him. 

 

Oddly enough, it’s not the light grinding that spooks her, but the brazen drag of his thumbnail across the canvas of her stomach as though ‘that’ is too intimate. 

 

Ayana snaps from her daze and struggles from his arms just long enough for his brain to tell him to release her. He won’t touch her without approval. Mr. Noir wants her willing or not at all. 

 

Instead of vitriol, he gets laughter and giggles and a mean smile that says she’s deeply amused by his confession. 

 

The chestnut strands that fall from her hair tie frame her flushed cheeks, highlighting the swell of the fine bones in her face like a portrait. 

 

It’s bold, but Mr. Noir takes a step towards her and nods at the two corpses behind her, “We can make this a joint venture. I’ll keep them from leaving bruises and you can brain them as deeply as you wish.”

 

Ayana’s stiff stance lessens, but she’s still on guard and naked looking without her hammer in her fist. It had fallen beside him while he’d been pleasuring her and she’s seemingly forgotten about that until right now. 

 

“Ya know, we could just fuck and get it over with,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like an offer and as much as he wants to fuck her senseless, she’s not just a cunt to sink inside of. 

 

Mr. Noir takes another step forward and inhales the leftovers of her orgasm from the bloody air, “I want all of you.”

 

He puts a hand against her shoulder and continues, “Consider, for a moment, a man who’s seen you at your most private… your most debased, your most serene and only wants you more. I am that man. Let me be your humble slave.” 

 

The hot breath panting between her lips folds into a moan as his thumb stretches against her neck. Bare, slightly damp skin only gets his heart thumping all the harder.

 

“I’ll support your pleasures,” he says in soft promise, daring to draw her closer with a hand across her lower back, “... all of them, and drink from you when allowed. Say yes. Say-” 

 

Mr. Noir’s near begging is sucked down his throat as Ayana shoves him back into the counter. 

  
  


**Thursday 12:05 AM, across from 1401 Helen Street**

 

He is just what she needs. At least, what she needs right now. Tomorrow she could be engineering ways to kill him without Adam catching wind, but right now Mr. Noir has snaked under her skin and lodged himself where no one has previously. She wants him; needs him… and will have him - all of him.

 

A pepper shaker and some nameless kitchen implements topple over, rolling to the floor as he braces himself against the counter. He groans - startled - but doesn’t defend himself when CanDie coils her nails in the front of his thin black shirt. She fists the fabric and drags him across the tile floor on rubber boot soles, towards the couch in the darkened living room. All the while, she could feel the thumping of his heart under her knuckles and knows he's been waiting for this moment longer than she can sufficiently realize.

 

The warm stove light glares in the shadow-black flat screen television where their dark figures dance. CanDie sees herself herding a black silhouette - a full head taller than herself - towards the sofa. Mr. Noir stumbles back as she pushes, throwing him the rest of the way down onto the cushions. Whether he tripped up for real or is putting on a show, making himself pliant for her, she doesn't know. Doesn't really care, either. 

 

A ratty pillow falls to the carpet, just a foot away from a bloody footprint, as he bounces on the rusty springs. 

 

The line of thickness, trapped under wrinkled black canvas, catches her eyes. Saliva in her mouth triples, making her swallow and moan, wondering how much girth is being held back by those pants of his. They won't be a problem much longer...

 

"Ayana-" he begins. 

 

“Don’t say another word,” she tells him with a lodge of violent lust in her throat. 

 

She’s warm from her orgasm but hungry for more, and he’s proven to be delicious, so she kicks off her sneakers and straddles him about the hips; fingers stretching black shirt threads before exposing the hard, dense swath of pale underbelly. His stomach is firm with a thin, warm layer of fat and dusted dark hair. Under her hands, the muscles knot and bulge; seizing with each fretted breath.

 

“Perfect,” she praises him with a lusty sneer, enjoying the way he gulps while adjusting the masked chin. For a second she wants to tear the white face off him but resists the temptation as he stretches, arching his back while her fingers glide up and down his navel. Beneath her, Mr. Noir grunts, fisting the edge of the couch and backrest; preparing himself for her onslaught. 

 

It’s a powerful feeling. Being the one with the hammer or the baseball bat… or the knife, against someone so much more substantial than herself, never gets old. 

 

Even when she’s outnumbered like she was tonight, there is a pervasive need to feel in control while defeating evolved strength; killing it. In a way, this feeling is alike enough to blur the edges between murder and fucking... enough to where she nearly goes for his throat. Instead, she grinds down over the hard line of cock hidden behind black canvas slacks and yanks at the shirt until he crosses his tendinous forearms over his chest and works the material carefully, but hurriedly, over his masked face and down onto the floor. 

 

In two seconds she’s shirtless as well, throwing the material over the backside of the couch; goosebumps rising along her arms. In another five she’s bare-breasted with her bra half hanging off Mr. Noir's chest. When she finally pushes her fingers to his belt buckle, she meets his own thick fingers, furiously undoing the button and zipper for her - too hopped up on the same fumes boiling insider herself. 

 

“Thank fuck…” she gasps, seeing the long, vein-laden monstrosity of hot, hard cock jutting from the parted darkness. 

 

CanDie leans into the sofa backing, accepting his help removing her leggings with the same rapid hunger he'd given his own clothing. 

 

She kicks the slack off one foot but ignores the way fabric clings around one ankle, too busy seizing the purple-headed cock that’s easily large enough to hurt her. She moans, braces a palm over his heaving chest and mops the swollen tip through drenched folds, sinking down the second it dents the starving opening of her cunt. The torrid stretch is a fire where his fingers had been an itch in comparison - so thick... so alive and pulsing with blood. 

 

CanDie trembles, spearing herself over his throbbing cock until he’s bruising her bare thigh with extended fingers, squeezing the fat of her ass; trying to stop himself from yanking her down in his lap judging by the sudden suspended jerk he makes. Dense muscles twitch, and his elbows bounce with tenuous restraint. 

 

It’s fucking intoxicating. 

 

She claws his stomach from navel to pubic muscle, inhaling a lung full of oxygen before relaxing around his cock, and sliding fully down its length. With a toothy smile, despite the staggering discomfort of having him so fucking deep, she sinks her nails inside his chest and churns in his lap. 

 

Mr. Noir seethes. His neck cranes back, exposing a bulging adam's apple and begins grunting with each back and forth slide of cunt. Every tight drag and slot of cock dents her cervix, but the pain is only temporary. She expects it to sting for a minute at least. Adjusting to his fat length happens quicker than expected, though... 

 

He must see the pain etched between her brows and under her eyes, because he grabs her hip, stretches a thumb down over her vulva and starts rubbing her tender clit until the pain vanishes and her cunt relaxes further... sinking further.

 

She sobs, grabs onto the sofa headrest, straightens her spine and shoves herself flush, fucking in hip-rocking motions that pound the pleasure deep inside. Every swipe of her hips makes that spot his fingers found earlier palpitate. It’s a knot no one but herself has discovered, and the effects have never been worth the bother, so she'd all but forgotten about it until tonight. 

 

But Mr. Noir knows how to reach it. 

 

He knows how to make her scream, rolling his hips beneath her. The fucker - the marvelous fucker - makes it look so easy. 

 

Beneath the grating cadence of her hips, he groans, thumbing her clit with uncoordinated strokes - too hard or too soft but never just right - and yet it works. CanDie doesn’t even mind it when her real name tumbles out his mouth on a choking grunt.

 

“Ay’ayana…” 

 

If anything, it makes the sensations within her denser; heartier. The sound of her name being chanted under his breathing brings slices of pleasure to her belly, so she rolls languidly inside his hands, glaring thoughtfully down at him. She licks the edge of her mouth and calls him a 'good boy' just to see what happens and relishing in the way he responds like someone took jumper cables to his sac.

 

Is he looking at her face? - Her tits? Is he watching the way his thumb lashes her clit while her cunt clenches and sucks around his cock or are his eyes squeezed shut in pained bliss? 

 

She doesn’t know, and the unknown of it adds to the crescendo of pleasure.

 

“Yes,” she wails, feeling orgasmic tickles begin. She arches her back, braces a foot on the floor and nudges her knee up so she can get a heel on the cushions between his hips and the backing. The angle of his cock shifts, driving deeper.

 

“... fuck, yess..”

 

CanDie lifts up on her heels and without warning, begins spanking herself over all that hard cock, hoping he isn’t about to cum too soon and if he does, give her some notice beforehand. 

 

She’s so fucking close…

 

“Just,” she sobs, bouncing on his cock, and screwing her lower lip between her teeth, “... a little more.”

 

Mr. Noir grabs both globes of her ass - thumbs cinched between hip and thigh - and starts battering her over his cock while she bears down and up. His heels dig into the floor and sofa, bucking up with every yank on her lower body. Every slam rubs that knot inside until his cockhead is bruising her into a wildfire. Another orgasm bleeds through her like plasma carrying beautiful acid through her veins - it crashes into her brain, and she cums as the sound of beating flesh strikes her ears.

 

Mr. Noir snarls below her; muffled and brutal. 

 

Clear, slick fluids gush around his smacking cock, soaking his parted pants but he doesn’t stop. Heat floods CanDie's face like hives breaking out, spreading down across her chest. The sensation makes her ears burn, but the pounding continues even as her limbs shake and tremble... as her body drains. 

 

He’s not done despite the way her elbows rattle. 

 

“Oh god,” she whimpers, going willingly - too weak to put up a fight even if she wanted. Mr. Noir wraps her up in an oddly tender embrace before shoving her down into the same cushions she'd just fucked him into. Somehow, he sinks even further than before. Dull shocks attack her guts.

 

“Oh. God!” 

 

Mr. Noir laughs at her - a husky, enraptured sort of chuckle - before wrangling her ankles in a fist and shoving them into the headrest. His cock, still cinched inside the first hot inch of cunt, starts beating her into a screaming, wet mess; tits bounding across her chest. 

 

She claws at the furniture, clutching the armrest behind her but can’t find solace in it while he drives her into oblivion, so she goes for a bulky shoulder but slips across a layer of sweat. The next time she tries to latch onto him, CanDie slaps her nails around his arm and throws an elbow around a tight neck, grasping her wrist so she can hold on firmly as her slighter body is furiously fucked against the sofa. 

 

“Ayana,” he grunts her name louder now… says it again and again while she gasps out haunting ‘fucks’ and ‘oh, gods’ and a litany of curses, getting hammered so hard she can barely breathe because-

 

“... ahhh’ha,” she sighs; limbs locking around him... feeling wonderfully... perfectly broke. 

 

CanDie comes to with an electric pulse being sparked in quick succession between her thighs. At some point during her dramatic climax, she's captured his throat. He’s struggling to breathe but keeps fucking despite the cords in his neck bulging and the breathy, choked grunts puffing behind the mask.

 

Another orgasm rips through her, too soon after the last... 

 

This one is so viscid she can’t form words - can't even make a sound. CanDie exhales as it wraps around the back of her head, locking her spine and squeezes her fingers deeper into his throat. Weak chokes filter behind the white plastic face as she takes the breath out of him - as he reams her sopping cunt despite the way it tightens and contracts. Her peak tips over into a lethargic come down... slowly, she weakens... fingers releasing... 

 

Mr. Noir gasps - oxygen starved - and furiously pulls out, leaving her so fucking empty it hurts. The heel of his hand bruising her ankle releases, leaving weak legs to fall and spread around him. A splash of hot liquid stains her stomach a second later. That wide cockhead dents over her mound and with furious jerking motions, more thick rivers of cum flow down her skin, pooling into her navel. The warming globs slide over the curve of her waist to the couch below. 

 

He knew enough to pull out, CanDie thinks with tears slipping down the edges of her face. It’s a little shameful - the waterworks and all - but she’s never been fucked like that before. Nothing has ever felt so good as the combination of vices she’s experienced tonight and she's not even loath to admit it's all due to him... 

 

Mr. Noir breathes through his nose - emotionless masked features oddly erotic as he experiences his own orgasm. Like a bull about to rush, he exhales while stroking the final backlog of cum from his cock. CanDie can feel the way he mashes his cock against her clit, and the odd little stroke his thumb brushes into her sweaty skin when he's finished. 

 

“You’re...” she tries and pauses, feeling dizzy as blood rushes back to her head, "... fucking hell." 

 

He strokes her legs, squeezing the sore stretched muscles until CanDie’s eyes flutter with appreciative contentment. She watches him unwrap the tangle of black leggings from an ankle before setting her knees back around his hips; petting the warm cum over her stomach and ribs and molding her breasts in warm, damp palms. 

 

Wicked swipes over her nipples add to the warming euphoric glow of so many full orgasms. 

 

Mr. Noir, she thinks... he's too good to be true, but it's easy realizing he’s real and not a figment because the fucker has seen the tits he’s stroking many times before. A slight flicker of ire comes and fades. CanDie knows she's unpolished and cruel, but he wants her anyway. Up until now, she’s been alone. Tonight, things are different - tonight the world changes. 

 

Mr. Noir presses the mask to her face - nose to nose - and pinches her nipples until she locks her ankles around his back, sighing. 

 

“What... do you think?” He asks; sounding reasonably fatigued. 

 

She smirks, blinking in a lovely haze while the smells of death begin to infiltrate the sticky aroma of cum and musky sex, “... is that all you’ve got?”

 

It’s meant as a tease - a nasty little jab to break up the emotional cloud hanging over them, but Mr. Noir doesn’t know when to quit. One moment he’s watching her through two black fabric eyes and the next she's being spread open - broad palms pushing her inner thighs apart - and an unmasked mouth latching over her raw, moistened cunt. 

 

For the next half-hour, or hour… or maybe more, she takes everything Mr. Noir gives her. CanDie stops counting the minutes or the orgasms after the second time they fuck - taking her from behind upstairs on the Dead Guy’s bed where she’d initially surprised the man.

 

They find time somewhere between the second and third fuck to whisper things that would have made her sick with the sour sweetness of it all but now… it’s different. She’s smitten. Addicted. He holds her against his naked chest as she nods off and by the third time they fuck - a little while later - he’s threatening to kiss her and she’s begging him to. 

 

Maybe he breaks the code and lifts away the mask to swallow her tongue into his mouth - maybe they tangle themselves around one another and kiss until their throats tighten and she can’t taste anything but him beyond the flavor of her cunt, and copper undertones of blood from his own mastication…

 

She finds, that by the time the sun rises and the bodies downstairs begin to reek, that she loves him madly, and deeply, and obsessively...

  
  


**Sunday 7:30 PM...**

  
  


Mr. Noir sits in the back of the limousine as Adam straightens out his tie and crosses a leg at the knee. 

 

“So, we have,” Adam looks at the silver watch on his wrist and smiles, “about five minutes time, depending on if the cities populace is feeling like catering to indoor or outdoor vices… what am I dealing with here? Really?”

 

“I’ll kill you over her,” Mr. Noir says with monotonous sincerity. 

 

“Interesting. So, it’s that sort of joint venture you were referring to over the phone. I see,” the way he speaks says he’s unsurprised, “Can you imagine the horror one might feel being tormented, hunted and killed by lovers shrouded in The Noir’s symbol?” 

 

Adam grins and taps his fingers over his thighs. 

 

“Nightmarish,” he adds.

 

While appearing arrogant and narcissistic, Adam knows when to pick his battles. He won’t trouble himself with Ayana being more than just another employee. If he can handle the manic, unpredictable nature of someone like The Breather or Lydia with her sexual proclivities amassing its own orbit, then Ayana won’t set off alarm bells. Besides, Adam respects Mr. Noir enough not to poke between him and Ayana Armstrong.

 

To prove this, Mr. Noir watches as Adam empties his pistol, pockets the bullets and sets aside the empty gun on the cushion beside him. They share a long look - one of pleasant surprise and anticipation and the other hidden behind a vacant mask… but one that’s not without emotion beneath. 

 

Mr. Noir has killed with Ayana twice since Wednesday night where he’d won her over; saw her kill for the first time and been rewarded for his bold move by being thoroughly fucked with two corpses going cold mere feet away. 

 

Of the two jobs they’ve completed together - of the two more lives she’s taken - he’s always found himself tangled around her, sweating and pounding his hips up between her creamy thighs until the fluids nearly run sanguineous-pink. 

 

She’s like tar heroin. Methamphetamines. An addiction.

 

This, Mr. Noir thinks… sitting with company but feeling alone without her, is what it must feel like for an addict without their fix. 

 

Eventually, Adam signals the driver and the limo pulls up to Edward’s Apartments. Through the wet, tinted windows, the building looks like bespeckled droplets stuck in the mosaic-imitation of a dwelling. Sleet starts to tap the steel roof as the driver's side door opens and shuts. A second later, the freezing wet air gushes through the cabin. 

 

There’s a wolfish look in Adam's eyes as the driver pops open an umbrella, but Mr. Noir runs a tongue across his bottom teeth and wonders if the man truly knows the carnage his newest Noir can wreak. No, Adam hasn’t seen her in action… doesn’t know the heat and tightness inside her cunt after the slaughter or how soft her moans can be when she’s stroked just right. 

 

He sits alone in the back of the limousine for fifteen minutes before Ayana’s voice breaks beneath the pounding sleet.

 

The limo door opens. 

 

Mr. Noir's obsession is ushered inside with only a few half-frozen droplets of rain in her hair… which is unshackled tonight… free flowing around her shoulders. The onyx long sleeve and tight, dark leggings make him think of the way he’d nearly torn them off her the other night - the disgustingly passionate and wonderfully frenzied sex that had followed still makes his body burn where she’d left slight scratches across the expanse of his back.

 

Their eyes lock, or at least his do on hers, and with a coy smile, she hunches down and slides into the empty space next to him. On the tops of his thighs, his atrous-black gloved hands creek; squeezing the muscles below. 

 

She looks immaculate tonight.

 

The chill has made blood flood under thin, almost translucent skin. It’s hard not to pull aside the hair from Ayana's neck and rub heat into her throat… gently trapping the blood in her brain until she grows purple-faced and grinning for him.

 

Adam says something low to the driver. The sleet continues pelting the limo and batters the fabric umbrella.

 

At his side, Ayana scoots closer and rests her head on his shoulder, making his breathing come faster.

 

“I missed ya this morning,” she whispers; cloyingly sweet with a subtle threat in her tone. Next time, he will have to wake her before leaving. The previous evening, she’d licked the plastic lips on his mask and kissed his fake mouth with the relish one would lay over hotter, warmer lips. He’s never wanted to taste anyone’s tongue more than hers at that moment.

 

Before Mr. Noir can reply, Adam enters the cabin. The umbrella stalk hovers outside the door, keeping the boss dry before the door shuts and clicks. Across from them, Adam smiles and smooths out the wrinkles on his tailored suit; enjoying the sight before him most like.

 

“I must admit, CanDie. This recent turn of events is pleasing. We’re happy to have you working for us officially. No more side contracts. No more risky endeavors. But you know that already and we’ll have plenty more work for you and Mr. Noir to take care of. How did you sleep last night?”

 

Her cheek rubs into Mr. Noir’s shoulder, leaving him feeling powerful in a way he rarely achieves, even by physical means. 

 

“I like not being snooped on twenty-four seven. So far, we’re fucking aces. Haven’t been this well fed in awhile,” her voice is full of inflection; sexually laced but it’s not for Adam. At her side, Mr. Noir grins beneath the mask and bends his neck, resting his naked jaw over the crown of her head. She reeks of lavender oil, and it gets his blood rushing.

 

Adam crosses his legs and folds his hands over his knee, flicking a light frozen bit of rain off the creased edge just below the cap and smiles as the limousine drives onward, “Good to hear. Everyone has a darkness inside them, we just give people what they want. Afterall, everyone’s just one headline away from succumbing to those ingrained hedonistic tendencies.”

 

“This way,” Adam continues with a leer as Ayana rolls against Mr. Noir, running fingernails along the exposed line of his wrist until her slave has to swallow to keep from drooling, “we all get a little slice of debauchery while taking a pay cut from the sheep and their unimportant little games.”

 

“Ya both already know how I feel about that,” she says, saccharine, “I don’t care who it is in the end. Tell me who to bash in, and I’ll make it happen, Captain.”

 

Adam’s smile curls. He likes her, Mr. Noir notes, reveling in the way Ayana leans into him while the limo turns, clutching his thigh and side when it twists the other direction. A few nights of pleasuring her and a couple more messy murders have won her over more than he could have ever dreamed. 

 

Mr. Noir likes to think she’s as lovesick for him as he is for her. Suffice to say, he has proven to her his worth.

 

“Well,” Adam leans back; shoulders relaxing, “only time will tell how far this latrine of human refuse reaches but it’s been bottomless so far, as you’ve seen. Now it’s time for something a little more… unorthodox this evening.”

 

The three of them discuss the contents of a manila folder filled with email logs, account credentials and cell phone transcripts. 

 

This time, they’ll be kidnapping a woman so the newest Noir recruits can cut their teeth on terrorizing and torturing a helpless cunt on live camera. It’s boring, according to Ayana but she perks up at the mention of a boyfriend that could need handling. 

 

She folds her legs on the leather seat cushions and taps a thin knife inside her stiff winter boots, giving Mr. Noir the beginnings of an erection. 

 

“Killing two birds with one stone,” Adam mentions offhanded, “There’s someone who’s been snooping too close to the wolf’s den, and he’ll need bringing in once we pinpoint his location. The girl is fodder at best. But she’s young. White. Attractive. People care about that sort of thing…”

 

“Assholes,” Ayana mutters. 

 

Mr. Noir watches her flip through social media photos of the woman with pouting lips in various stages of makeup, backlit by shitty clubs with girls that look as basic as she does. It’ll be fun seeing the look on this bitch's face before Ayana knocks her out. Maybe, if he’s lucky, the act will get Ayana off just enough to ride him on the girl's bed. 

 

Mr. Noir already needs another fix. Fourteen hours without her is too long.

 

“Do whatever you need with the boyfriend,” Adam mentions while typing an email on his phone, already deep in separate business, “just dispose of him, Mr. Noir. I don’t need the cops thinking this is a murder and runaway. It’s a kidnapping.”

 

“Noted,” he replies as Ayana flips through the dossier, having slid her spine against his side and pressed a heel into the armrest on the other side of the cabin. Every now and then she giggles at something on the pages - the sound like effervescence in his chest. 

 

“Mr. Noir?”

 

He turns from the cascade of Ayana’s hair and slowly turns towards Adam. In his hands rests a mask, painted with red lips and a softer oval frame. 

 

Mr. Noir twists at the waist and strokes the side of his lovers face until she peeks up and looks through top lashes at him. 

 

“... hmm?” She hums in question; eyelids heavy as he thumbs the ridge of bone under an emerald eye.

 

“It’s time,” Mr. Noir tells her, watching her lashes flutter, her eyes widening before turning toward her new boss across from them. She slips her heel off the leather, sits with both feet on the floor and leans in as Adam passes her the mask. 

 

Adam smirks, watching her with a tilt of the head as she twirls the hard plastic mask in her hands. 

 

“Welcome to The Noir, CanDie.”

 

With a smirk and menacing gaze, Ayana throws a leg over Mr. Noir’s thigh. He watches her lick her lips in that way that says they’ll be wrapped around his cock later tonight if he’s a good boy. He doesn’t realize he’s been breathless since she plucked up the mask until she finally slips it over her face, whispers…

 

“It’s Mrs. Noir now…”

 

… and finally, he breathes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this to the end. It was a bit longer than I usually go for, but I kinda just ran away with it. Hope you all liked it! Thank you to the Anons for the requests and inspiration. If you have the time, please drop me a comment and let me know what worked or didn't work. (By the way, the female Noir's actual name is Ayana Armstrong and she lives in the apartments with the protagonist. Crazy, huh?)
> 
> As usual, a big thanks to Darth Fucamus for her help checking this thing over for major issues. Any and all typos are my own. <3
> 
>  
> 
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